Order and form are the two rails on which architecture rolls. The newfound vigor of chaos derails architecture into black, deadend tunnels choked with soot, illimitable delays, and colorful desultory wrecks. At the end of nearly every day, after observing or managing chaos, I depart the scene with nothing to show for it. Nothing, except for small drawings.

Chaos is here to stay: meaningless bright adversity, overbearing dull beige banality, and the profligate urgent shrillness of spendthrift capitalism all create absurdity and waste beyond even Kafka’s wildest imagination. Arising out of this disorder come small bubbles of order, moments when one hand, temporarily unoccupied by the keyboard or the legal pad, can briefly roam free and make a connection between things that are separated.

This installation is a bank, a place where I deposit my dreams of escape. I participate in the warmth of chaotic energy without emotion; instead I invest emotions into small things, the open movement of my hand creating these dreams of escape. Meanwhile, order and form get restored.

Few, if any, of these are actual planes. They are dreams of aircraft, sketched during chaos; they are ways out. Tiny, quickly scratched blossoms of highly ordered objects, droplets of comfort and calm.